by Victoria Sue
Deacon reddened and dipped his head, and the lady’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, it is you?”
He nodded glumly. “We’re leaving, though, now, ma’am.” It would save her from throwing them out. A shame because he couldn’t bring Molly now.
“And I don’t want to hold you up, but is there any chance I could get your autograph for my niece? She’s word-perfect on every song from Just Joking.”
Deacon’s mouth opened in shock. She wanted his autograph? But….
“Here.” The lady grabbed a small pad from next to the register and nearly pounced when she saw a pen.
Deacon took it gingerly, like it was going to explode or something, and then his brain finally kicked into gear. “What’s her name?”
“Amelia.” The lady flushed. “I so wish she was here. She has a T-shirt, the single, and the album. Three posters in her bedroom.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen now.” The age Nickelodeon wanted to target. It had worked, then.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but are you by any chance writing any more songs? I mean, I know the band split up, but I know all her friends love you.”
Deacon smiled. “I don’t honestly know, but if I do, I will let Amelia know,” he told her, and they left.
Maverick nudged him as they paused to cross the road. “Fan, huh?”
“That was surreal,” he replied. “I thought she was going to throw me out.”
They headed back to the truck. “Maybe Sara Jeffries wasn’t as successful in her witch hunt as she thought she was.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning maybe your ordinary fans—the tweenagers—just want to hear your songs and don’t care about the other bullshit.”
Deacon highly doubted it, but it was a nice thought.
“Would you consider it? If there was any chance of another contract, would you go back to singing?”
Never. “It isn’t that lucrative unless you can write your own songs, and I wouldn’t know a treble clef if I fell over one.” No, it was cool while it was good, but he would never put himself out there like that ever again. “It was gratifying she was so nice, but Deacon Daniels has officially retired from the music industry.”
“Yeah, Uncle Danny. What’s with that?”
“My real name is Daniel Brown. It was too boring for Sony, so I changed it up. Deacon was my grandfather’s name. I’m going to change it back as soon as I have a second to breathe.”
They both climbed into the truck. “Oh, I don’t know. I quite like Deacon.”
He does? Deacon shot him a look to see if he was joking, but Maverick’s warm brown eyes just regarded him steadily.
“So, if you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?”
Deacon didn’t have to think. “A physical therapist.” Mav raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “But it’s another seven years of college. I was looking into being a PT assistant, which is only eighteen months full-time, but I need to earn money as well.”
“Didn’t you say you were a masseuse? Maybe you could do that and study part-time?”
Deacon nodded, suddenly shy but pleased Mav had remembered. “But I’m not qualified. I would have to take a test.” Something else he’d never finished. He started the truck, and then on an impulse he didn’t want to name put his hand on Maverick’s where it was resting on his leg. “Thank you.” Mav had looked after him. Bought him ice cream with funny names.
“For?”
Deacon chuckled, feeling so much lighter despite his mom. “A slow kiss.”
Maverick paused, and for a panic-inducing second, Deacon thought he’d gone too far.
“You’re welcome.”
And Deacon, not wanting to push his luck, started driving home, all the time wishing a slow kiss was for real.
Chapter Seven
THE MAN looked down and pasted on his best nervous expression just before he got into the stupid bitch’s car. She smiled eagerly, but then she would, because she thought he was doing her a huge fucking favor.
She didn’t know she was going to die.
“You’re sure my name isn’t going to be leaked?” he said, pretending to be worried. “I need a promise of complete confidentiality.”
Sara Jeffries put her hand on his arm in what he was sure she thought was a comforting gesture. “Absolutely. No names. I can promise you complete confidentiality.” She tittered like she’d just said the funniest thing in the history of forever. He wondered if she’d still be giggling like they were sharing some big fucking secret when he was pouring lighter fuel all over her naked body. He licked his lips, and she patted his arm again. The bitch thought it was a nervous gesture, but really he was imagining all the things he could do to have some fun first. This one he was going to take his time with.
“Nice car,” he complimented. He would have preferred to meet in his, but that would have been awkward when they went home together.
She smiled again and opened an iPad.
“No,” he said. “Nothing electronic. You promised you would show me your notes first when we are done.” He couldn’t take the risk of her saving something externally. He was content at the moment to let her think he was paranoid. He brought a pad and pen out of his pocket. “You can use this.”
“Very traditionalist,” she snickered but took them and stowed the iPad away in her purse. “Now,” she said. “You were going to give me some information about Deacon Daniels.”
“Why are you so interested in him?” She’d been like a dog with a bone.
Her eyes gleamed. “Because he’s my ticket out of here. I have an interview next week in New York.”
He leaned forward as if he was sharing a confidence and clasped the syringe in his pocket, sliding the cap off the needle. “Did you know he’s got a new boyfriend?”
She stilled. “My readers won’t care he’s gay. He’s not exactly kept it a secret.” She sighed as if she was disappointed, and he smiled to himself.
“Did you know his old agent is dead?”
Her head whipped up. “Jones? No. Accident? Suspicious?” She started trying to take notes, but the pen wouldn’t work as he knew it wouldn’t. She tutted and bent forward, reaching in her purse for another. It had been exactly the move he had been hoping for, and before she even had a chance to think about screaming, his hand was covering her mouth, and he plunged the needle into her neck. He held her effortlessly while she struggled.
“Quit fighting,” he crooned, even as he felt her struggles getting weaker, “because I’m going to give you an exclusive.” Her eyes widened, not because she wanted the story, but because she knew what was coming.
“There’s going to be another murder,” he whispered in her ear as she gave one last pathetic jerk, and he watched as her eyes closed. He gave her another second to give the ketamine a chance to work properly, and then he let her go. He stuffed everything into her bag, got out of the car, and walked around to the driver’s side. He’d insisted because of his job he couldn’t be seen, and she had understood, so no one was around here to see him lift her out of the seat and stuff her in the trunk. Then he would take her home. He’d already checked she had a garage he could just drive into when they got back to hers.
The man smiled to himself again. That had really been way too easy.
A SLOW kiss? Maverick thought. Deacon was half-teasing, I think. His body was noticing Deacon more and more with every minute they spent together, and it was getting harder to ignore.
But he would. Apart from being incredibly vulnerable, Deacon was a client. Mav couldn’t mess this up for Jamie. Which reminded him, he needed to call her. Deacon pulled out of Lafayette Drive and headed for the I-75. It would take them about thirty minutes. Another quarter of a mile and they might hit traffic, though. The ice cream store had been close to the Arts Center, and there would be lots of students coming out soon.
“I have another interview tomorrow.”
Maverick glanced at Deacon, but he
had his eyes on the road. “While I understand the need, of course I do, I’m just not sure that’s such a good idea at the moment.”
“I have no car, nowhere to live, and no cash. I also have no choice,” Deacon said. His words were harsh, but his voice was soft.
“Okay,” Maverick conceded. “I’m going to call Jamie when we get home, and I might give Charlie a call as well. See if he knows how Detective Phan is doing.”
Deacon did glance at him then. “Should I be worried?”
Mav scoffed. “You couldn’t hurt—”
“A fly?” Deacon interrupted. Mav kept his mouth closed. He was the last person who should be making assumptions. They made a right turn, and Mav glanced in the side mirror.
And froze.
A black Charger pulled out of the street they had just come from and joined them. He might not have noticed if he hadn’t seen it turn, because it was tucked behind a Toyota sedan and some sort of large Ford, probably an Explorer. Was it a coincidence? He couldn’t see the plate, obviously, as it was behind him. “Take a right here,” Maverick instructed.
“What?” Deacon questioned it but turned right onto Spring Street. “What is it?” Deacon looked in the mirror. The Toyota went straight on, but the Explorer followed them. After another few seconds, so did the Charger.
“We might have a Charger following us.”
Deacon gripped the wheel a little tighter. Then the Explorer turned left into a museum, which left the Charger. “Take the next right,” Maverick said. “I want you to head back to Seventeenth and pick up I-75.” The Charger slowed behind them as Deacon signaled, and suddenly Maverick realized what a precarious position he was putting them in. It was pretty deserted around here. Whoever was in the Charger might intend harm to Deacon, and Mav had no gun.
Fuck. Mav nearly swore out loud. He had his Glock 22 at home, but it was locked up as per Jamie’s conditions of him living there, along with her own Sig Sauer P328. Although, she would have taken hers with her when she went to serve papers to Aaron Malloy.
Deacon turned again, but this time, the Charger went straight on and disappeared. “I couldn’t tell if it was the same one,” Deacon said, the distress in his voice clear.
It was no good. Mav had to get his ass back behind the wheel. That was twice today Deacon had to drive when it should have been Maverick’s job.
“I doubt it was. To see it this far out is unlikely. We didn’t tell anyone we were coming here. I think it’s a coincidence. Like you said, it’s a common car.” He tried to sound nonchalant, except Maverick didn’t like coincidences, and they could have easily been followed from Deacon’s mom’s, or even Maverick’s.
Deacon didn’t look convinced, and Maverick decided he was definitely going to call Charlie.
Maverick was relieved when they got back. He’d caught Deacon checking his rearview mirror what seemed like a hundred times, but there was nothing he could say because Maverick was just as guilty even if he wasn’t as obvious. He eased his leg out of the truck and hid the jab he felt in his back.
He walked around—maybe he limped around—the truck but epically failed at keeping it from Deacon.
“A bath would help,” Deacon said randomly, looking him up and down. “Do you have one?”
Mav had a sudden urge to smell his armpits, but seeing as how he’d showered that morning, he didn’t think that was what Deacon meant. He hoped it wasn’t.
Humor lit Deacon’s eyes as if Mav had said all that out loud. “I’m going to give you a massage. Warm water helps you relax first.”
Maverick wondered if it did anything for your breathing, because at the moment, his lungs seemed to have stopped working. He shook his head. There was one upstairs—two actually—but they were impossible to get in and out of without help.
“That’s okay. We’ll manage. My oils were all trashed in the apartment, but I spotted some good hand cream in the bathroom, so I can use that. Go up and get comfy on the bed. I’m going to see what Jamie has for supper.”
“Pizza. She has pizza.” That was all Maverick seemed able to contribute to the conversation.
Deacon screwed up his nose. “If we ever eat pizza together, I’m taking you to Giordano’s.”
He’d never heard of—
“Chicago.” Deacon grinned. “And don’t bother ordering what’s on the menu. You let Matteo make you what’s good.”
He’d forgotten. For one second, actually maybe a lot more, he’d forgotten this man in front of him had once had the trappings of wealth. Deacon had probably been to more countries than Mav even when he had served.
He’d called Deacon an airhead to Jamie, but in the space of barely a couple of days, Maverick had realized how wrong he was. Deacon was intelligent. He loved Molly like it didn’t matter she was a spoke in his carefully crafted wheel. She needed him, and he had come running. He had survived the bastard of a father and had just been cut down by someone else who should have loved him unconditionally.
Mav hobbled upstairs when they went inside, and Deacon disappeared into the kitchen. He really didn’t know what to make of the offer of a back massage and was worried he was setting himself up for awkwardness. He’d managed to keep a lid on his attraction, but the thought of those slim fingers doing anything other than touching his arm was getting him hard already.
And that hadn’t happened much lately either. Some headshrink they had sent him had cheerfully told him the rate of sexual dysfunction among amputees could be as high as 33 percent. Something to do with how he saw his body afterward. Which Maverick didn’t need a psychiatric degree to work out. The private in the bed next to him at Walter Reed had had some serious fucking issues that freaked him the hell out. He’d wake up at all times screaming in agony to the point that the nurses had to sedate him.
Problem was the pain was in his foot, except he didn’t have either anymore. Maverick had wanted to cry with the guy after his girlfriend had also freaked out and never come back. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t felt for him. He wasn’t completely cold, just really fucking scared he was going the same way. So, he’d gotten tunnel vision. Did every exercise they told him… more than they told him.
He’d pretended to Deacon he’d casually heard about the paratrooper who returned to full active service after an amputation, but he was lying. He could recite every word of the article he’d dreamed about while he’d lain in that bed. Every time he’d gotten himself up on the parallel bars to learn to walk, he’d been like that guy going on missions with his M4 and carrying fifty pounds of body armor.
Then he’d gotten his new leg, and because it hadn’t worked instantly, the depression everyone else had seemed to go through in the hospital had hit him like a ton of bricks, and he’d turned his back on the lot of them. It had been true when he’d told Deacon he didn’t want to go back to active service; he just wanted to walk. A small very selfish part of him had for a second been glad he’d never had to tell Cass he wanted to leave. After eleven, nearly twelve years, he was done. Ready to come home for good. Then in another bad moment, he convinced himself wanting to avoid the conversation with Cass had tempted fate and she had come and delivered some sick retribution. Maybe—no probably—that was why he’d avoided Charlie as well.
The thought made him pause, and then he heard a knock on the bedroom door.
“Do you like chicken?” Deacon called.
“I like everything,” Maverick answered instantly.
“Good.” There was a pause.
“You can come in. I’m not sure whether you just want me to lie down or not.” He badly wanted to take his leg off, but would that freak Deacon out?
Deacon stepped into the room and glanced at the bed. “Towels?”
Mav nodded to the bathroom, and Deacon went in and came back out with a pile of them. He pulled back the comforter and spread them on the sheet. Then he looked up at Maverick, who was still standing there. “You need to get undressed, and if it won’t bother you, why don’t you take your leg off for a
while.”
But it might bother you.
He glanced down at his body, and he could feel his pulse spike. His burns were bad on his face, but the scars really came into their own down his leg.
“I’ve done this before,” Deacon said as if he was trying to encourage him.
He had?
“It gave me the extra cash I needed for college, even if I’m not fully qualified,” Deacon explained. “I’d never had money, so when I got Pops’s, I pretty much set about blowing it in the first few months.” He shook his head. “Really dumb. So after Michael made me see sense, I got a part-time job and stopped partying. It helped that it only took two years.”
Mav started with his shirt. If Deacon could cope with the burn scars on his body, he’d progress to the leg. Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, he pulled off the shirt.
Deacon’s gaze roamed approvingly over his chest. “Nice definition,” he murmured, and Maverick snorted in disbelief.
“You should have seen me last year.”
Deacon arched an eyebrow but just said, “Leg?”
Maverick swallowed. “I’m not a pretty sight.” He hated looking at it himself, and the thought of showing it to others made him feel physically ill.
“I don’t care about pretty,” Deacon said firmly. “I care about you being in pain.” Which made Mav reach down and press the button on the side of his socket to release the suction. He eased it off and rolled down the inside liner.
“Does it hurt?” Deacon bent down to look.
“Not there. The limb aches occasionally, but the pain’s in my back.”
Deacon considered his answer. “I’m pretty sure you know more about this than me, but a lot of it is because of compensatory gait.”
Mav had heard the term obviously, but he was surprised Deacon had.
“My roommate for the second year in college had a lower leg amputation because of meningitis as a child. Once he knew how interested I was and that I was thinking of becoming a PT, he shared all his experiences. I even went to a couple of appointments with him.”